What happened next
by planet p
Summary: AU; a sequel to After the island. ** An alternate sequel is also posted called Mangoes in the Wintertime.
1. Chapter 1

**What happened next** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

_Four months later_

A crashing, scraping sound woke him suddenly in the early hours of the morning, the walls stained by intermittent flashes of blue and red as he opened his eyes, and reached a hand up to touch his face, pulling back when he flinched. The photographs covering the walls – all of those dead eyes – popped in and out of view. He stared particularly hard at a picture of Tazu; she was alive in this photo, and wearing a bow in her hair; Chiyo, too, though she wore a scarf over her hair. He tried not to think about the pain, or the blood, and the flashing of lights died over time, and he was left alone in the dark. The blood was still there, on his face, but it wasn't so bad.

Later, he switched on the bedroom light and frowned at the blood, deciding that he'd need to clean it before it dried. It would be harder to shift then.

He walked to the bathroom and came back with some things for cleaning and his mind wandered away; it had been a motor vehicle accident, the man hadn't been paying attention, or had been rushed, it might have been anything, and the driver hadn't been able to stop I time, or avoid the pedestrian.

It was over now.

It was finally over.

Tears ran down his face as he cleaned, stinging on the sores as they went. Could it be? For a moment, he stopped cleaning, just stopped what he was doing.

He would take her to the zoo, he decided.

It didn't matter if she'd been before; he would take her again. They'd go to the cafeteria, and they'd have ice-cream together. It didn't matter how much it cost; he'd use his credit card if he had to, he could pay it back later.

It was over.

* * *

It was just starting to show light outside when he stirred again, having fallen asleep. Tazu's hand was on his arm and she was frowning. He supposed it was because of his face, and sat up. He didn't want to worry her, it wasn't as bad as it looked.

His head hurt, and he remembered the chemicals. He started to cough, and stood up. He needed to put those away, and open a window.

* * *

The air from outside was like ice when he opened the window, and his face stung again. He turned away from the window and walked to the bed, and sat down. He had something to tell Tazu; it was time.

Tazu sat down on the bed beside him silently, holding in her words of urgency that he see to his face, or have it looked at by a doctor; his doctor, perhaps, if he was awake, and at work.

He didn't look at her; he was frowning at the window, at the unfamiliar sight outside of it, but said, instead, to the floor, to the icy air coming in from outside, "It's over."

A long moment later, he felt her rest her head on his shoulder; she understood.

* * *

He felt so tired, but that was okay because Tazu was here with him, and they were at the zoo. He'd never been to a zoo before.

The day was bright now, and he'd put a Steristrip on the cut on his face.

She'd been to the zoo before, in Tokyo, she told him. It had been raining, and she'd brought her umbrella. She'd been young then. She'd liked the otters best of all, though she couldn't remember why. If they saw them, she might remember why.

She didn't ask about the accident. She didn't ask, 'Who was he?' He couldn't have told her if she had; he didn't know. Maybe she'd known, maybe she'd sensed it somehow; it was just that he'd spent so long… he'd shared his feelings for so long, that he supposed they'd formed some kind of connection, whether they'd known it or not.

But none of that mattered now; it was over.

* * *

They had ice-cream and coffee in the little café – there wasn't a cafeteria, the little café was situated right next to the gift shop – and he could tell the woman serving them must have thought Tazu his daughter, at first, and then, when she decided that they were a couple, she turned a little cold to them.

He didn't let it bother him, and it didn't.

The coffee had made his heart pound, but he didn't wonder how his sister drank so much of it, or Cox; he felt sick from the ice-cream, but it wasn't a bad feeling, because he'd wanted to eat it, and Tazu was smiling for the first time in a long time.

No matter what would happen later, she was smiling now.

He didn't know either; he just hoped it was something good.

* * *

As they were leaving, at the gate to the parking lot, Tazu stopped and asked, "What will happen now?"

He'd stopped, too, and he turned to look at her properly and lifted a hand and placed it on her face. "_Something_," he told her quietly in Japanese, hoping that she would understand that he wished her well. If people sometimes came back, after death, and started new lives, he knew she would not remember him; she'd not remember that they'd been friends, but he wished her well. He hoped she was happy, whatever happened.

He didn't realise he'd closed his eyes until he opened them again, and smiled. He put his hand down and turned and headed for his car.

It was done.

* * *

At his apartment, he took down the pictures from the walls; there was no need to visit Lucy's grave, her spirit hadn't stayed with her body.

He made another coffee and lied down in his bedroom, on the bed, and felt his heart beating, and looked at the ceiling, and all of the walls, now bare.

He smiled. It was early, but he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

_Pretty lame, I know. If you were wondering who the character was, it was Lyle. Thanks for reading! Your input appreciated._


	2. Chapter 2

Lyle thought it had rained for a couple of minutes in the night, but by the time the sun had risen, there was no way to tell if it'd been a dream or if it _had_ rained.

Through the kitchen wall, Kelly Clarkson was playing on full volume from the neighbouring apartment; Odette was studying for exams. He walked to the kitchen cupboard and took out a book on the Thai language; he'd been doing some translations for Jones from a recording of a telephone conversation between a husband and a wife; he'd promised to have them done by today.

He replaced the book in its place in the cupboard, and poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink and placed it down in the centre of the table. He'd go to the bathroom for his medications and come back and have something to eat for breakfast.

As he was walking to the bathroom, he thought about what he'd have for breakfast. He wasn't hungry, so he decided to just have toast. At the bathroom, he found that he'd run out of herbal capsules, and his vitamins were getting low.

He put a hand on the wall and stared for a long time at the spider painted there.

He walked back into the kitchen in time to hear Odette replay the song she'd just listened to, and sat down at the table to take his pills with the glass of water he'd set aside; it was still in the middle of the table, where he'd left it.

He poured himself another glass of water at the sink and frowned, looking out of the window onto the street. A car from the police station?

He placed the glass down on the metal draining board, half full. The car wasn't Jones', he decided. A different station; it was from the station on the other side of town.

An urgent banging started up outside in the corridor; Odette's music fell silent after a couple of bangs.

Lyle started to walk towards his apartment door, breakfast forgotten. Had one of the other neighbours complained about the noise?

From the other side of the door, he heard an unfamiliar female voice. "To your best knowledge, your neighbour is home, Miss Smith?"

"Yes, but-"

The unfamiliar female voice: "Your assistance in this matter is appreciated-"

Odette: "What is this ab-"

"I'd advise that you return to your home, Miss Smith." A male voice; the female's partner?

"I don't-"

"If you'd give us some privacy, Miss Smith," the female voice interrupted.

"He's an American, I swear! He's not… _foreign_, or anything. I mean, to my best knowledge. He told me he was from the country, as a kid."

Lyle frowned; he'd never told Odette that, they'd never spoken before.

"I'd appreciate if you returned to your home," the female voice relayed stiffly.

"He's one of us-"

Lyle walked the few paces to his door and unlocked it. Two plain clothes law enforcement officers; Odette in a _Hannah Montana_ tracksuit. "Odette, please… do as the Officers say."

Odette's eyes widened on his face: Oh, he'd come to rescue her, that was… nice. She turned about and fiddled with her doorhandle; she hurried inside, forgetting to nod to the officers.

The woman's cool gaze adjusted direction. "Are you Lyle Parker?"

"I am," Lyle replied. "May I ask what this is in relation to?"

The woman's cool eyes hardened.

Lyle turned away and walked to Odette's door. He knocked a few times; the door was opened hastily, as though Odette hadn't been far from it when he'd knocked. "It's early; maybe leave the rest of the wine for lunch, hmm?"

Odette's face flamed. "Yeah, it's kinda lame with Cornflakes," she admitted. She lowered her voice. "Are you in trouble?"

He nodded. It looked that way, so far.

"I didn't say anything!" Odette assured him in a quick, quiet voice.

He smiled; there was no need to alarm his neighbour. "What would you say, Odette? We don't know each other. We've never spoken before; today is the first time."

"Yeah," Odette agreed. She supposed it was, too.

"Mr. Parker," the woman's voice had taken on an impatient edge; she didn't like him.

Odette's pink face scrunched in worry; the woman was antsy.

"Goodbye, Odette," Lyle told her. "I know you'll be terrific; don't let it get you down."

Odette smiled.

He took the doorhandle and closed the door for her, and turned back to the woman and her partner.

"Detective April Young." She had her gun out, and aimed. "Lyle Parker, you're under arrest for suspicion of involvement in the murders of Chiyo Hakamora and Tazu Iakawa. You don't have to-"

Lyle stepped past her quickly, and hurried toward the four-year-old boy who'd just stepped out of one of the apartments. One of his little yellow Crocs fell off when Lyle picked him up; they were a size too big for him. Lyle knocked on the door quickly. "Ada, don't lock your brother out."

The door opened in a flash. "You don't know what he did!" Ada howled furiously, shooting out a hand to grab her little brother.

Lyle stepped back, in a hurry.

Ada glared at her little brother; he was dead. Running to the neighbour for help was for chickens, and sooo pathetic!

"What did he do?" Lyle asked calmly.

"The little bastard put my cell phone in the freezer. He did it on purpose. And now it doesn't work! He broke it!" She made a disgusted voice. "_Just_ because we watched my movie _instead of his_ last night!" It wasn't fair!

Lyle sighed. "Ada, take Roger back inside. And please, be nice to him. Those are police officers over there."

Ada's eyes widened in fright. She reached out her arms to take the little boy, and shuffled backwards, back inside, slamming the door after her.

"Mr. Parker!" Young's gun had been put out of sight, but that didn't mean she wouldn't take it out again.

"Just let me lock up."

* * *

The door to Ada's apartment opened as he was passing and Ada poked her head out. "Does Hannah Montana steal your mail? She's been stealing our stuff!"

"No, Ada, I haven't had any mail stolen of recent," Lyle told the 13-year-old. "I don't think Odette has had time to steal anyone's mail; she's studying for exams."

Ada rolled her eyes. "Whatever!" she grumbled. "And don't be home late!" She slammed the door shut.

Young glanced at her partner.


	3. Chapter 3

_One year later_

Ashon, 6-year-old Colby Cash decided, as he sat drawing zombies in the exercise book he used for math at primary school, sucked. Sure, he lived in a _cool_ house, and the school he went to wasn't the _worst_, but Emily – his _mom_ – was married to David Cash, the chairman of the Center's second (and largest) Delaware branch, and he _didn't like_ David.

Plus, he'd had to change his name – _Alla_ had had to change her name; she was now Allison Cash – and Emily had changed her name to Liberty – Libby, as David called her – Cash, his new _father_. As if it wasn't bad enough that he had to call David 'Dad,' he had to call Emily 'Mom' – and that was something he'd promised himself he'd _never_ do again!

But, no!

No choice, now!

It stinking sucked!

And he bet even 16-month-old Alla thought so.

The only _good_ thing was that he'd got to choose his own name. (Wow, wasn't that the _best_ thing ever? If Emily hadn't given him such a _stupid_ name in the first place, it wouldn't even matter; so maybe he owed her a 'yeah, thanks' there… totally, for fucking his life up with that shitty name that made everyone think he was a pissy _girl_!)

In other matters, Alla was blind, and she'd just started to walk. He didn't get _why_, if she couldn't _see_ where she was going, but it wasn't really a big deal. She wasn't even his _proper_ sister; she was his half sister.

Into his drawing, he added a picture of his math teacher, being eaten alive by the zombie hordes.

* * *

Breca Cash, David's younger sister, fixed her lip gloss in the mirror of the expensive hotel restaurant's bathroom, turning a small glance to her sister-in-law who had her back to the mirror, which, with the low back on her dress, showcased a ridiculously large but impressively detailed tattoo of an angel with wings extended.

She'd propped herself against the basin counter, waiting for the painkiller she'd just taken to settle.

As her gaze stretched, Breca felt her brow begin to crease. She'd never asked why Libby had such a tattoo, she'd just kind of gone with it, but now, it seemed to her, that it was actually kind of important, that someone who went in for that sort of thing – tattoos – could possibly be someone of a disreputable and quite possibly dangerous nature; not someone, she realised, she wanted her brother to be married to.

She had no qualms with small, well placed tattoos, she supposed, but Libby's tattoo wasn't one of those. It smacked of bad things; of bad choices, bad treatment, and bad attitude.

Tearing her gaze silently from Libby's back, she redirected her gaze to her own blue eyes in the mirror, her mind beginning to spin all sorts of new, frightening thoughts.

Allison's constant appointments with specialist after specialist had started to give Libby headaches; the painkillers had been prescribed by her private doctor. David didn't believe in seeing company doctors; if it wasn't about work it was his business, not the company's.

Or so, that was Libby's official line.

Now, Breca wondered if they _were_ painkillers, at all. "Libby, sweetheart," she asked, "you're not a motorcycle fan, are you?"

A frown began to form on Libby's face, and she turned her head to glance at Breca. "Motorcycles, in themselves, I have nothing against; it's the garish accidents I'm not a friend of," she replied, a tired wince about her voice that said the painkillers were doing jack all.

Carefully, keeping her voice light, Breca furthered, "Oh, I just thought, with your tattoo…" She let the sentence hang.

Libby stepped away from the counter, half turning to face the younger woman, and turned her right wrist up, exposing a small, simple sun tattoo. "Do you believe in hope, Breca?"

Breca found herself mentally frowning; of course, that hadn't been the tattoo to which she'd been referring. "Well, yes, I do," she said, anyway.

"Have you ever believed in something so much, so _hard_, that it became real; solid?"

Breca's mental frown turned outward, marring her face as she thought about Libby's question. "I don't know," she finally answered.

Libby sighed, with worn eyes. "The sun is our hope, Breca; it gives our planet life, and life gives it love and hatred and ignorance's destruction. But it's not all bad, because where there is life, there is always hope for understanding and love."

Breca's head hurt; her mind was confused, muddled, so she decided to shoot straight through the mass of perplexity to the _real_ point. "You love David, don't you?"

"Yes, Breca, I'm in love with your brother," Libby replied, and by the sound of her voice, Breca knew that the conversation had come to an end.

_Thank goodness for small miracles_, Breca thought.

* * *

Breca wasn't married, nor had she children, though she currently found herself in a relationship with 17-year-old schoolboy Junior Valetta. It was a naughty thing, she supposed, given the gap of years between them, but she genuinely did care for him, and it wasn't _illegal_.

She'd been thinking about sharing this little secret with Libby, though, as she left the ladies room, she began to wonder if Libby really could be trusted.

Perhaps she was being overprotective, or jealous, but she decided that if she _was_ going to share, she'd give it a few more days, or weeks.

* * *

Emily took the initiative to leave the bathroom first, Breca following behind her in her quiet yet assured way, which, to other people, gave her an air of harmlessness, though Emily wasn't fooled.

It was in a hotel restaurant much like the one she now attended that she'd first met David, at a function much like the one the hotel was hosting for tonight, and she found that she couldn't calm her upset.

Anything and everything that came from the Center was lies, and yet, to keep her agenda afloat, she had to play along to the sound of their cause's marching drums.

It was as sickening as it was taxing, no matter how good the food was.

She was nobody's two-bit flute in their immoral, dirty money band.

* * *

The food had made her feel slightly ill – maybe, she thought, she'd eaten a little more than had been wise, or she'd taken too much wine – and she lowered the window a touch, to let some air in and to get some circulation.

Surprisingly cool evening air spiralled into the window, and David cast a glance her way.

She laid her finger on the switch to raise the window, and the small gap to outside disappeared. She still felt ill.

* * *

She'd lay down to sleep more than half an hour ago, but she now felt hot, and, if possible, sicker than before. It made her wonder if she was coming down with something, if, a small, cold part of her wondered – curled tight and hidden deep inside – she'd been purposefully _exposed_ to something. Her heart pounding, her wild thoughts swung to her children. Could they have been exposed to the same thing?

She forced herself to remain lying, and jammed her eyes shut. She would keep them that way for as long as it took for her to find sleep, and the inclination to open them fled until she woke again.

It had not, she told herself, been Breca's question. It had not been the lie she'd told.

* * *

She'd just gotten off to sleep, it seemed, when the person beside her began speaking, and her mind, in its often effortlessly curious manner, began to try to make sense of nonsense words, but, of course, it told her, they were not English, but that did not mean that they were not something, either. They were something else, another language; one she did not know.

Her eyes flickered open and she turned over. It was simple: She needed to sleep, so the sleep talking had to go. Right now, if possible.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realised that the person beside her wasn't David, and a stab of fright attacked her chest, scaring the air from her lungs.

Who was this person?

It became apparent, in that moment, that she was not in the bedroom she shared with her husband, but another room altogether, and the fear gripped tighter.

She sat, then, and shifted closer to the stranger.

A strange half fright, different from the other fright, slowed her heartbeat in her chest. Why couldn't she stop this? As she lowered her face to the stranger's, to rest her cheek upon his, fingers stroking his face, it occurred to her that it was a dream; nothing more than a dream.

It wasn't frightening, it was just a dream.

The dream her began to chant, small, quiet words, and the stranger's words slowed to a stop.

It was just a silly dream.

Through the darkness, a different darkness to that that shrouded David and Libby's bedroom, the words of her dream self floated to her ears; caring, assuaging. "Lin's here; it's okay now. I'm here."

* * *

Emily jolted into wakefulness, ripped from sleep by the inappropriateness – _wrongness_ – of that name; the fact that, in her dream, it had been _her_ name.

Her chest pounded heartily; David slept on soundly.

She moved closer to her husband and rested her head on his chest, slowly rising and falling, telling her that he was asleep. "David, I love you," she whispered, and wished it was true.


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't you think it's a spot risky, _mom_?"

Emily glanced at Snow, lounging in his seat in the car. "What does that mean?" she asked, annoyed, and frightened that he'd say such a thing in front of David. Still, she assured herself that he hadn't said it to hurt her, to hurt them; it was something else, she was sure.

"A speck, a little bit," Snow elaborated casually.

"I think what your mom's asking is what is it that you think is risky, son?" David interrupted, keeping his attention on the traffic.

Snow made a face at Emily. Great, now look! David had just called him 'son.' It was nauseating! "Dad," he announced, "I don't want to play stupid baseball; it's dangerous, and I'll die like my brother!"

"I'm sorry-"

Oh, no! David was not going to ruin this, not this; he couldn't deny this! He hadn't been there! "He's dead!" Snow hollered loudly from the backseat.

Emily's face reddened and tears sparkled in her eyes.

Snow smiled. Had he made her embarrassed, unbalanced her perfect plan? "He was sick; it was a relief really, to all of us. And I like to think, to John."

David's eyes flickered from the road to Emily's face. "Are you alright?"

Emily nodded, not trusting herself to speak just at that moment. Had she done something to upset Snow, had she hurt him in some way? She couldn't understand how he could be so horrible. Was she still dreaming?

David parked the SUV in a space in the fifteen-minute parking zone, behind a flashy new Volvo.

"That's cool, I'm good," Snow blurted, straightening in his seat and grabbing his schoolbag, "I kinda wanna walk in by myself; it's apparently really uncool to have your parents chaperone you to your locker." He flung open the car door beside him. "Bye, mom; bye, dad! I love you guys!"

The door slammed shut behind him.

David turned again to glance at Emily. "I didn't know; why did you never say something?"

Emily's face coloured again. She couldn't take this. Not from both of them, at once. "John's not real," she explained levelly. "He's never been real; he _was_ an imaginary friend."

David frowned, confused by her revelation.

"He's past all that now," Emily continued, determined, "though, sometimes, I think Colby holds it against me; I think he misses John, and he sees me as the one who took him away from him."

David took one of his hands from the steering wheel and rested it on her knee.

Emily looked away from him, at the side mirror through her window. "There's others waiting, I think we should go."

David's hand left her knee, and he nodded slightly. He hit the indicator, and pulled out of the space, back onto the road, glad that one of the cars had stopped to wait for him to pull out, though they'd not been after the parking space.

* * *

"We've just been assigned an exciting new program!" David revealed, after lunch, when they were playing tennis in the club's courts. There was no one else about; he figured it'd be safe. "It's dead exciting, but somewhat cryptic!"

Emily waved her arm to indicate that she was taking a break for a drink, and he joined her. She picked up her water bottle and took a sip, wondering if she shouldn't take out her puffer. She was in good shape, and she hadn't needed to use it for a long time, but she didn't want to overdo it and bring on an attack, either.

"You'll never guess the name they've given it," David enthused, taking the bottle as she passed it to him.

"You're right," she told him, "I'm awful at guessing games; so, what did they call it?"

"Project Light! That's it!" David laughed, and took another sip of the water.

"It's from the Triumvirate?" she asked, tightening her ponytail with her hands behind her head, on her hair.

"No, no," David explained. "The Triumvirate doesn't assign us programs, they're more like Watchers. The Tower, it comes from the Tower."

"So what do they do, the Tower?" Emily asked, lowering her hands again.

"The Tower coordinates the whole thing, the whole company," David told her.

Emily touched his arm for a moment. "It sounds important; are you sure the branch is up to it?"

David nodded, assured. "Yeah, we're good for it. This is bloody great! I mean, this _so_ _darn_ great! When people think of the Center and Delaware, no one's going to think of Blue Cove; it's going to be us, baby! All the way!" He laughed again.

Emily smiled.

* * *

After lunch, Emily took the SUV out to take Farfalla to her appointment with the specialist. She spent a long time sitting in the clinic's waiting room whilst Farfalla slept, unaware of her mother's nervousness or stress.

She didn't see why Farfalla had to see another specialist, or why, for that matter, she had to keep seeing specialist after specialist; they both knew she was blind, and nothing was going to change that.

She took out the romance novel she'd started reading three months ago, but, at the time, hadn't been able to get into, and had put it away, and found that she still wasn't able to get into it, but she stubbornly kept reading the lines and turning to pages.

She needed to calm down. It was all going to be okay. It was all fine.

* * *

The specialist's had gone smoothly, and they were on their way home. Emily was relieved.

She knew she shouldn't have been, the specialist's opinion was bleak: with the current medical knowledge and technology nothing could be done to restore Farfalla's sight. But, nonetheless, she was relieved.

Another ordeal was over, for Farfalla and for her. The hard part would come later, when she had to tell David.

* * *

After dinner, David invited her into his study. Emily hadn't yet told him of the specialist's prognosis, and she stole herself.

Only to find David telling her about a conversation he'd had with the man over the phone – apparently, _the specialist_ had rung _him_ – the man had been concerned that there was something wrong with her, and he'd had to rush to explain that it had been at _his_ insistence that Farfalla had been scheduled for so many appointments.

He had decided, then, he told her, that they'd give the tests and appointments a rest for a while, at least until the medical professionals forgot that they thought them both mad; finishing by asking for her thoughts. Was she ready to give up, just for a while, maybe?

Emily only nodded. What else was there do to?

Then David turned and moved away, busy, for a moment, before he returned to stand by her, and unfolded a newspaper clipping and handed it to her to look at.

Emily took the clipping, apprehensive, and glanced down to read the article. It was about Lyle – she'd heard of the trial, of course, and of the multiple life sentences – but the newspaper clipping revealed that he'd met the unfortunate end of an argument. She shook her head, looking up at David, confused.

David was grinning, excited. "He's an Empath. Can you believe it? That someone like that could do such horrible things?" He frowned. "He's not actually… dead," he hurried to fill in. "He'd be of no use to us dead. He's going to be part of the new program I told you about."

"What is an Empath?" Emily asked, though she remembered David having explained it once before.

"Think Alison Dubois!" David told her rapidly. "Don't you remember? We talked about this before."

Emily frowned. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just… I'm not thinking right. All of the… the appointments, and the disappointment coming back from them…"

David squeezed her arm understandingly. He was as disappointed as she was, for their daughter.

"I don't know," Emily told him, "I just think that someone like that should stay in prison, where the justice system put them. They don't deserve a back door."

David nodded, squeezing her arm again. "He says he wants to see you; that he has something to tell you."

Emily laughed.

David's eyes flashed with apology. "He says he knew your mother… before the accident…"

Emily frowned, unbelieving; upset and surprised that her husband had believed something like that from such a person. She'd told David that her parents were dead, that they'd died in a motor vehicle accident. "I don't know him!" she told him resolutely, shaking her head. She wasn't going to do it.

David stepped closer to her and lifted his hand from her arm to her face. "If it's bullshit, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that _you_ tried, and you'll know that you didn't lose anything, that there'd have been nothing to be regretted if you'd not gone."

Emily shook her head. "No, I don't want to do it, David," she told him simply.

David's eyes softened the way they did when he was trying his hardest to win her over. "Libby, baby, do it for _me_; do it for the kids, do it for Colby and Allison."

Emily laughed shortly, raising a hand to cover her mouth. "No, we don't negotiate with _animals_ like that!"

"Libby, Libby-"

Emily pulled away from him, and away from his touch.

"She was your mother; she's our children's grandmother."

Emily made a face, pained. "I'm not playing any games with him!" she said.

"And I'm not asking that you do," David placated.

"I'll go there, and if he has nothing to say, or I think he's lying, then I'll leave," Emily continued, before she felt too sick to talk anymore. She'd told him before that they were through, and still he'd not taken her for her word!

"That's all, that's all you'll have to do, I swear," David assured her, moving to take her into his arms.

Emily didn't move, but let him wrap his arms around her. She felt ill again. She'd hoped he'd get what was coming to him in jail, but now that'd never happen. He'd been assigned to a program, he was something again. She felt so, so ill.

If there was ever a next time that they came up against each other, and she had a gun in her hand, she'd make sure not to blink.


	5. Chapter 5

Emily went to bed that night and sunk into restless slumber, and if she dreamt, she couldn't remember having done so when she woke the next day, tired and irritable.

She'd slept badly.

She dressed formally for the occasion, forgoing any dress she might have chosen any other day – any bright colours or lively pattern – and chose a skirt suit in black accompanied by a pair of low-heeled ankle boots in matching black.

If he didn't get the message after that, then she didn't know what else to do but to tell him flat to his face to just fuck off.

* * *

Lyle was humming when she walked in, but she didn't even care to take notice of what. She walked out into the room as far as she was going to, and stopped. "Speak."

Lyle stopped humming, and walked over to stand with a couple of steps between them. "That's hardly any way to greet an old friend, Liberty," he said. "I might say, time's not improved your manner."

Emily kept her face impassive. If he had nothing else to say, then she was going to leave.

"Davey's a wee bit gullible, isn't he? Went right ahead and believed the first thing I said, criminal and all that I am."

A glare crept into Emily's eyes, slithering between the invisible cracks in her resolve. How dare he insult her husband? David was nothing like him, he was a decent person! But he could go on insulting him, she didn't care. It only went to show what sort of a _person_ he _was_!

"But cute!" Lyle commented. "I see that, you see. Did you think I wouldn't? He's very cute." He tilted his head to a side. "Stupid as _Hell_, but cute!" He sighed. "That's what does it for you girls, huh?"

"You said you had something to tell me about my mother," Emily told him, trying hard to keep her voice from a growl.

"Yes! Yes, I did!" He bit his lip, smiling as he met her gaze. "But I don't. Sorry, bit of a liar." He giggled. "You didn't _think_ I would have, did you, Libs?"

Emily laughed hollowly.

Lyle tried a frown. "No, no one calls you Libs? How's 'bout Bertie?"

Emily took a menacing step forward, her eyes corpse still on his face and hard as stone.

Lyle smiled, as though he found the whole thing _too cute_.

"I had a dream about you," Emily told him in a low, unwavering voice. "You called me Lin. Why did you do that?"

Lyle grinned and walked the short distance to stand before her and slipped his hand around to the back of her leg, bringing it up to rest underneath the material of her skirt's hem. "Just a dream, darlin'," he told her.

Emily remained unmoving, willing him to go back to whichever hole he'd crawled out from.

Lyle dropped the smile, then his hands were on her arms, turning her around, away from him.

Secretly, Emily smiled to herself. She'd not played his game, and now he was angry.

He pushed her toward the door. "Leave! Get out!"

Emily laughed, amusement bubbling up from her chest where she'd moments before felt an overriding sickness.

Lyle jerked her around sharply to face him. "Stop it!"

Emily went on laughing, even as his hands tightened on her arms. He'd be in trouble, in a minute.

His eyes flickered for a second, as though to go into his head, and he shook her a bit, thinking that he'd frighten her into shutting up.

She kept laughing, until he kissed her.

And then the Sweepers came.

* * *

David had apologised and apologised, but all Emily really wanted was to go home, to go home to her children, and maybe lie down. She declined David's offer to call a Sweeper to drive her home, to drive her home himself, and drove the car home by herself, taking longer than usual, but managing not to throw up.

At home, she found Farfalla in her nursery, sleeping, and leant down to kiss her forehead, stroking her hair for a while, before going downstairs for a glass of water with a good dose of vodka on the side.

She went back upstairs to lie down, afterward, and fell asleep.

* * *

She woke, late in the afternoon, to the sound of Farfalla's hysterical screaming, and rushed out of her room toward the nursery.

Emily sat together, with Farfalla's nanny, Whitney, in the office of Farfalla's paediatric doctor for any news, until Farfalla was returned, the doctor declaring that she was fine and that there was nothing discernibly wrong with her.

* * *

Returning grumpy from baseball practise, Snow stormed up to his room, then out again, straight into Farfalla's nursery where Emily sat, watching her sleep. "What did you do?" Snow demanded, rounding on his mother and taking hold of her arm tightly.

She ignored him, as she'd been ignoring most of everything since she'd returned from the clinic with Farfalla.

Sick of waiting for something that wasn't going to come, Snow growled and released her arm angrily, moving, instead, toward his younger sister's crib. He lowered the side and reached down his arms to pick her up.

Emily shot up from her seat and hurried over to stop him.

Snow turned to her with a glare, rubbing Farfalla's back as he held her closely to his chest. "You're a stupid woman!" he spat. "Stupid, stupid! You could have hurt her!" His voice rose in volume. "You could have hurt her! What then, hmm? What then, stupid woman?"

Emily fought back the urge to slap him across the face, not when he was holding Farfalla, but even with all of his screaming, Farfalla had remained sleeping. Emily felt a terrible fear grasp her, knowing that her son was different from other children, and that, if he'd wanted, maybe he could have hurt his little sister.

Snow turned his back on her swiftly, and replaced Farfalla in her crib, spinning back to face her. "Did you ever think she was happy with the way she was?" he growled in a low voice.

Emily didn't react. If she did nothing, maybe then he'd leave.

Without another word, he stalked past her, out of the room, dropping an annoyed, "I wouldn't hurt you, you're my mother, you crazy woman," at the door.

* * *

David took her out for dinner, and afterward they went dancing, but Emily was tired, and all she wanted to do was sleep. She couldn't believe how tired she was, but all she could do was wait for it to pass, wait to wake up; she didn't know what else to do.

She lay down to sleep, back in her bedroom, and dreaded any dreams that she might have.

* * *

"My caterpillar bride!"

He'd seen her just that morning. How strange he sometimes was! She walked up to him and smiled. "I'm not a caterpillar," she told him, "I'm a butterfly."

He put out a hand to run down her arm. "Will you leave?"

A small frown. "Leave?" she asked.

"Now you've wings?"

Her smile came back. "Can't; the weather is nice here. Cold out there, _dreadful_; I have to stay here."

He smiled, mimicking her word silently – dreadful – and pulled her into his arms. "I'll stay with you," he said.

* * *

In her sleep, Emily smiled a little, her dream self happy; David, who was watching television, glanced across at her. After a moment, he smiled too.

He'd let her sleep. He knew, now, that it'd been the wrong thing to do to push her meeting with the Empath.

They'd talk in the morning, and the sleep would do her good.

He switched the television off, and lay down, allowing her her distance.

It would all be alright tomorrow.

* * *

She laughed, pushing him from her gently. "You're not a butterfly, you silly Dumbo!"

He scratched his arm. "No, I'm a person."

"Person, person, person," she teased. "Oh, well, I'm not really a butterfly; only in my dreams." She smiled. "How was your day," she reached over to scratch his arm softly, "irritable person? I haaaad… chicken for lunch!" She smacked his arm. "Why didn't you have lunch with me?" she demanded.

"Well, Minnie, I was working, you see."

"I'm not Minnie Mouse!" she hollered, mock upset. "I'm a person. And you're my person."

He smiled. "_Your_ 'person'? That's a bit…"

"Extreme?" she shouted, grabbing his arm to yank him toward her and undoing his shirt buttons.

He smiled, glancing to the wall for a moment, then back to her hands, watching her progress, amused.

Her task completed, she lifted her head and brushed the shirt off his shoulder. She leaned in to him, opening her mouth.

He jerked back from her quickly. "I actually think I remember that now," he confessed, taking her arms in his hands. "You're a person, not a shark."

"I want to be a shark," she told him.

"I'm not very good at swimming. I don't swim, at all, actually." He stepped backward, relaxing his hold on her arms.

She smiled.

"Oh, this is bad."

"Very bad!" she agreed, with a grin.


	6. Chapter 6

It wasn't right, he probably knew that, he decided, but he just _didn't_ care. Breca didn't mind, and he couldn't bring himself to mind. He'd never tell her, of course, and she'd never guess, because she didn't know him, she didn't know anything about him, and Emily didn't ask; she never asked.

So what if Junior wasn't real, so what if he was all just in Breca's mind, and so what if he was in the mind of a 6-year-old, too. It wasn't illegal, there were no _known, written_ laws against it, and who was he hurting?

Breca was happy, and he was happy; they finally both had someone to love them. Besides, the way it was looking, Breca was probably the best thing in his life, so far, so he had no wish to give her up.

She was his, he was hers; they had a special connection.

Who was going to stop them?

* * *

Sometimes, he liked to make it hurt, just a little, so he'd pinch her, or bite her, or slap her, but never anything serious, and never anything hardcore, and she never asked him not to. He liked the way, when he hurt her, that he felt it too; it was something shared between them, a shared pain, and it excited him; it made it more real, made them more real, together.

He didn't think she'd understand, not really, but she always came back to him, she always opened the door and let him in again; even if they ended up smashing one or two expensive vases, or an old china doll with somebody's _real_ hair.

She always let him in again, like he was the vampire waiting at the door, for permission to cross the threshold, and, in a way, he was _exactly_ like that, waiting for his permission to dive into her mind, she just didn't know it.

The sound of smashing woke him in the night, interlaced with Breca's sobbing – his _Breca_ – and he found himself standing outside of her apartment, in the corridor, where he seated himself on the floor, just waiting for her to notice him.

There were tears in her eyes when she came to the door, and blood on her face – how good it looked, he thought, on _her_ face – from where she'd wiped her bloodied hand across it, and he stood to the sound of her sniffling, and walked to her, arms out. He'd take care of it, now; he'd make it all better. As long as she let him, as long as she _wanted_ for him to do so.

She'd wrapped a bandage around her hand clumsily – blood was beginning to show through it, already – but his eyes never left hers. She had wonderful eyes!

He guided her back into her apartment, and closed the door quietly behind them, then pushed her up against the wall, narrowly avoiding a disgusting – and likely disgustingly overpriced – painting, and licked the blood from the smooth, pale skin of her face to the tune of intermittent sniffles and little whimpers, felt more than heard, as a ripple through her skin; the subtle shifting of her Adam's apple.

He didn't bother to move to the bedroom or the living space, but took her there, against the wall, beside the revolting work of art and the locked door, the sound of her desperate wails amplified and imbued of an echoing quality in the narrow, cramped space.

* * *

In the morning, he slept in the car on the way to school.

* * *

In the beginning, he had to admit, it had probably started as more of a secret revenge act against David, who'd married Emily – _his_ fucking mother – and who was fucking her. _So, hey_, he thought, _I'll just fuck him right back, or maybe his little sister_.

No blood and gore and fists; just good, quiet _malevolent_ deception, from the source you'd least expect it!

And, yeah, it was pretty much a buzz every time, but over the months, he supposed he'd maybe come to care for Breca, and it was a Goddamn pity she was his aunt; they could have had cute fucking babies when he was old enough.

But, hey, wasn't that the way life worked? If it could screw you over, sure, why not, it'd jump at the first opportunity.

In a way, he was doing a good thing for Breca: He was stopping some other jerk from screwing her around.

* * *

In math, he showed his drawing to Zack, the kid sitting next to him, and managed to elicit a grin and a few muted sniggers, so maybe today he'd have someone to sit with at lunch in the cafeteria.

Sitting in the cafeteria, at lunch, with Zack and his buddy, Benedict, sipping his milk, when Zack's roundup of the wrestling he'd watched on the television the night before was interrupted by a woman's giggling, only, Zack kept on going, talking and talking, and Benedict kept on listening.

Snow started to frown, seriously weirded out, dude, when he realised that, shit, it was Breca's giggling, and she was…

Chatting to a young man serving at one of those expensive, a-step-off-the-street restaurants with a nametag advertising his name as Harry.

And giggling.

Snow jerked up from his seat, ready to put Harry back in his box, swearing obscenities in Danish, when he realised that he wasn't anywhere near Harry and Breca, and that a lot of people were staring at him, including Zack and Benedict.

He flunked his English test out of anger, and, after school, took his angry mood home with him, and up to his room.

Fuck that asshole, Breca was _his_ woman!

* * *

He stalked off the Alla's nursery, a quarter of an hour later, to read her her favourite storybook and play toys with her numerous stuffed animals.

"It isn't fair," he told Alla. "I _love_ Car; Harry's just… some_ idiot_ who made her laugh!"

Alla frowned at him and threw her stuffed hedgehog at him.

He made a face, and threw it right back, but not hard.

Alla reached for the hedgehog, smiling, with little hands, to throw it back; it was a throwing game.

He wanted to throw Harry somewhere, alright; preferably his _dead body_!

* * *

_Sorry for the creepiness!_


	7. Chapter 7

Snow dropped down outside of Breca's apartment, in front of the door that had been quietly closed in his face, on his knees, forehead rested to the wood, and sobbed.

She'd not open the door for him anymore, she'd chosen Harry, and she hoped, by the message of the closed door, and by her silence, to send him away.

But he'd come again, he'd come every day, and sit outside her door, until she came out of her apartment to send him away; until she spoke to him again.

* * *

As he left her apartment building, he spied Harry's car, and his fingernails began to bend and darken, sharpening to claws, and he casually dragged his fingers across the paintwork on the side of the car as he departed.

* * *

He'd found her at a nightclub he knew her to frequent, and followed her, when she stood up from the stool she'd been occupying at the bar, into the women's bathroom, pulling her around by her arm to face him, and taking a handful of her hair.

Her eyes went wide as he slammed her up against the wall made of mirror, and slipped a knee between her legs, pinning her to the wall. He moved his face in close to purr in her ear, and her hair brushed his cheeks. "I'm hard for you, baby."

She could feel the evidence for herself, if she didn't trust his words. She made a little whimpering sound, and he pulled back his face to peer into her monocled eyes. "Please!" she choked out.

A grin twisted his mouth. "Please? Please what? Please fuck me?" His eyes flashed at the idea of that invitation.

Breca shook her head rigorously. No! No, please! She didn't want that!

He tightened his fist on her hair, his easy smile turning slack. "I want to ride you so badly, cunt!" he whispered close to her face, his nose almost touching hers.

Tears slid into her eyes, and out onto her cheeks. She couldn't understand why he was talking to her like that, and treating her so meanly. She'd made her choice, and it'd been her choice to make.

He released her hair, opening and closing his fist as though the strain had fatigued it, and stepped apart from her abruptly. He dropped his hands to his trouser legs and pinched the material between his fingers, pulling them straight, and ran his hands down his thighs a little way, smoothing over the bumps his pinching the material had caused. With a casual swagger, he pivoted and walked out of the bathroom, leaving her alone, pressed to the wall, breathing quick, panicked breaths.

Her tears continued to slide down her face, leaving her in no doubt that she'd made the right choice.

* * *

Sitting in the car in one of the Center's parking lots, Emily fingered the clearance pass David had given her, for when she wanted to visit him. The interior of the car was stifling and hot, and she couldn't breathe.

It'd been two weeks since she'd come to the Center to talk to Lyle, and now David had rung her on her cell phone and left her a message on her phone's Voicemail that he wouldn't be able to make it to their regular lunch date or tennis afterward.

She pocketed the clearance pass and pushed open the car door, stepping outside.

* * *

She'd been strolling around for some time, casually checking out Med Space and having a look around, when she say a sign directing the pedestrian toward the Special Needs Unit, and an idea began to form in her mind.

Perhaps she'd run into someone she knew down there.

* * *

The room was brightly lit and opened first time with a touch of the clearance pass, and she stepped inside, seeing that she'd, indeed, come to the right room, and pulled the door shut quietly after herself.

She walked up to the bed and stopped at the end to casually examine the chart, but it didn't make much sense to her, so she replaced it again, and, casting a glance over the bed, turned and walked back to the door, and flicked off the light switch, and locked the door.

She took her time making her way back to the bed, and sat down on the edge and slipped off her shoes, lifting her legs onto the mattress after her, and lay down. For a long while, she just gazed up at the ceiling, letting her eyes adjust to the weakened light conditions. Then she rolled over and looked at Lyle.

He looked as though he was sleeping.

She sat proficiently and leant over him to slap him across the face. The sound was loud but short, and it rung in her ears, two times, three times, and more, her palm stinging. She drew to the conclusion that he'd most likely been sedated.

Shifting about, she rose to her knees, and swung a leg over to the other side of his body, and settled on his legs, staring at him through the darkness. She might have just put her hands around his throat and strangled him, she contemplated, or smothered him with a pillow.

She let go of the idea, and rose to her knees to shuffle closer. She had a better idea, a much better idea.

She didn't smile, at first, but dropped down to rest her head on his chest and feel his heart beating against her ear. It was subdued, but there all the same. She closed her eyes and wondered if she'd be game enough to go through with her plan.

It would be her revenge, she decided, for what he'd done to her seven years ago.

* * *

She bit back and incredulous laugh, not wholly stemming it, to know that whilst he might have been unconscious, his body seemed to have no qualms acting on her ministrations. It was a pity she would never tell him – a smile touched her mouth – or maybe she would after all.

She traced the scar on the inside of his right hand, which she could almost feel, and replaced his hand on the mattress, upending it from her grasp. She had no interest in making conversation, and it'd have been wasted on him, awake or not.

She twisted to the side and slipped off the bed to remove her underwear, dropping them to the floor beside the bed, and climbed back onto the mattress.

Oh, he was going to be pleased when she told him about this later!

* * *

The first moment of his being inside of her again, she shivered and moaned, and thought she would throw up, but she held it down, and forged on.

It wasn't that it hurt, or was even uncomfortable; it was that she knew who he was, in her mind, and what he'd done to her before. Whilst her body seemed to enjoy the attention, her mind rallied against it in rebellion, insisting incessantly that she'd made a mistake.

But it'd been her choice, and she'd have her revenge whether it was a mistake or not. At the moment, she told herself, it was just a body, and there was nothing at all wrong with finding pleasure in that.

He, himself, after all, had found nothing wrong in taking the same liberties with _her_ body, so she did not see that she should find clash of conflict in taking her own liberties; he was merely paying her back.

She could almost convince herself of this, if she closed her eyes and daydreamed herself far away, to another place, but not quite. It really wasn't fair, but nobody had ever said that cold, hard brutal revenge was about fairness.

This was her revenge, and no one would take that away from her.

Kyle's revenge would be a bullet in his head, when whoever so had taken their fill of revenge and there was no more revenge to be taken, and he was cast into tired worthlessness, waiting, only, to be disposed of.

But perhaps that would be too kind, an unexpected mercy; perhaps, there would be no quick endings.

Taken into her thought, she huffed and panted, momentarily coming back to herself to rest her forehead against his chest, thinking about her puffer, which she'd had the fantastic luck to leave in her car, and thumped her head on his chest. If she could have blamed him for the oversight, she would have, but he was unconscious.

She allowed her eyes to close, unexpectedly tired, and listened to the sound of his breathing, heavier than before, but steady and comforting.

She lay there for a while, listening to their breathing in the dark, before she slipped away, underwear and shoes back on, and switched the light back on before leaving.

She really needed a coffee now.

* * *

She took the car across town to an artful home wares and bric-a-brac place, with a charmingly little café nestled at its back, and sat to wait for her coffee to arrive, listening to the music that filtered through the speaker system throughout the store.

It wasn't a bad day, and she decided that she might take a few hours to do some shopping.

* * *

Over the week, Snow entreated himself to the principal's less favoured side when he started a fight with a boy who was supposed to be his friend, or maybe a friend of his friend, named Benedict, and landed himself in detention for the effort.

David wasn't home to make comment, so Emily sent him to bed without dessert, knowing how much he had been looking forward to it, and reclined on the leather sofa with a bowl of ice-cream to watch late night television, which, aside from boring her immensely, was punctuated by so many unbelievably ridiculous adult ads, that she zoned out and eventually fell asleep in front of the still running television set, the empty bowl discarded on the floor, so that, in the morning, getting up off the sofa and touching her feet to the floor, she unhelpfully landed her foot in the bowl instead.

* * *

Returning to Lyle's room, a week later, she stood leant against the wall beside the door, the room, once more, cast in darkness, and the door locked, and thought about what might have been going on with her son; to be starting fights with other boys, and especially boys whom he called friends!

After some long thought, she decided that perhaps it was a jealousy thing, and picked her away across the room toward Lyle's bed.

Coming up to the bed, she brushed a palm along his thigh, considering her options. "Did you dream about me?" Her voice was low when she spoke; she didn't expect a reply, after all, and she, in turn, did not receive one. Instead, she bent over and placed her mouth on his leg where her hand had been, and gave it a bite. Nothing happened, but she unclenched her teeth and proceeded to kiss it better, mumbling as she did, "Your skin tastes nice."

It was an odd thing to say, she would decide later, but occasionally, just occasionally, her mouth would say odd things that she would have no control over whatsoever, and would be left to merely marvel at their strangeness, like a rare gem, or a long thought to be perished artefact.

Leaving behind her underwear and shoes, she manoeuvred herself onto the bed.

* * *

At home, she discovered that David had left her a message on her cell phone relaying that he had an unavoidable trip to take – for work, of course – and that it would take away three, maybe four weeks. She was almost too angry to hear him pass along his love to her and the children.

'Three or four weeks' – not _three_, or _four_, but three _or_ four – and without even so much as a forewarning!

She made sure to buy extra ice-cream at the supermarket, and if she was sick because she ate too much, then she didn't even care about that.

She'd bought a whole tub for Snow, and walked up to his room, where he was glaring at his homework rather than actually working on it, and handed over the ice-cream and a teddy bear spoon which he made a face at, tearing his attention from his homework, but accepted.

* * *

She made up her mind, watching another annoying adult ad later that night, that, with David gone for a while, she might as well work on her 'therapy sessions.' It would be easier than working on Snow's apparent onset of hatred against the world, and though she shuddered to think of herself as a neglectful mother, she'd not yet worked up the courage to talk to Snow openly about his concerns since he'd had a go at her in Farfalla's nursery for being 'stupid.'

* * *

If anyone had ever confessed such a thing to her, she knew she'd have never been able to keep from a cringe, and a cautious step around them, ever after, but, being that it was herself committing the _thing_, she did not cringe or alter her stride.

As usual, she switched off the lights at the door, and locked the door after her, striding across the room with a now almost confident, easy gait.

After some moments, she decided she'd not been careful enough to remember to make sure that he was asleep, and planted a hand upon his cheek. Usually, she would have been able to win him over by now, but, so far, nothing had happened.

His skin felt a little awkward, she decided, shuffling up on her knees along the bed; kind of cool and icky. If he'd chanced to come down with something, and she subsequently caught it, or passed it along to her children, there would be a world of unpleasantness to pay!

She patted her hand on his cheek again, and felt, where his eyelash should have been rested against his cheek, it wasn't.

She reeled away from him in fright, recoiling inside.

He was awake!

Shakily, she scampered from the bed and raced across the room, hitting the wall at speed, and feeling for the light frantically. When the lights came on, she was afraid that when she turned around, that he'd be waiting there for her, standing at her back, but when she turned, he was still lying in the bed, staring ahead of him.

As she drew closer, inching forward, she noticed that he looked scared – or maybe it was more terrified than scared – and then she started to notice the bruises darkening whole parts of his arms in shades of blue and purple and red, the colours made ridiculous by the artificial lighting, and reminding her, freakily, of a Show, or fairground carnival.

Which was about when she saw the blood, and turned about and raced as fast as she could for the door, thinking how strange it was that she still couldn't stand to see so much blood, even when it was that of her enemy.

* * *

She didn't ask what was wrong, but then, why would she? She hadn't even been the one to report that something had gone wrong.

She swung back by the room a few days later, and found him once again sleeping, and blood-free. The bruises were still there, in varying shades of purple, brown and yellow and she sat down on the edge of the bed to count off the different colours on one of his arms, before returning to turn out the lights and lock the door.

She lay down on top of him, contemplating the bruises and what they could have to do with Project Light, her head rested on his chest. She wasn't the heaviest thing, so she didn't think it would be a problem for him. But she couldn't stay like that all day, so she sat up and set about her task.

It was only when she found their positions reversed – with a growl of "Get off me, wench!" – and an arm held across her throat, that it occurred to her that he had woken up. And then, all she did was laugh hysterically. What was he going to do?

She didn't mean to laugh so much, but she found that she couldn't help it. She sucked in some good breaths and spat back, "Then fuck me!"

She stopped laughing when his hand moved to rest on her backside.

* * *

She was breathing too fast, but she didn't care. She balled up her hands and pounded them on his arms in frustration, calling out, "Harder." But every time that she did, it was as though he thought she was a doll, and might break, and she only repeated herself.

She was angry and pissed off, and she wanted something angry and pissed off back, to match her mood. She _needed_ something to match her mood and allay it.

She sunk her nails into the back of his neck, intending it to cause every ounce of pain that it could, and hissed, "Do it!"

It was only two words, but it made a world of difference, and she found herself taken over, hopelessly lost, but completely, entirely found.

Her dark mood evaporated with the breaths she expelled, and the sweat that clung her clothes to her body.

* * *

At home, she was happy. She sung, and cooked, and danced.

Snow stared at her funnily, and she danced over to him and pulled him into a big hug, before he wiggled himself free and escaped to the relative sanity of the house's upper floor, or perhaps Alla's nursery, certain that she had gone mad.

* * *

They watched a movie on the television after dinner, all three of them, and Snow declared that he'd accidentally donated his English activity book to charity when his grade had been packing things into boxes to be sent away.

Emily promised to buy him a new book in the morning, and he contained his frown, annoyed.

* * *

She spent a good while finding the right bookshop which would have school books and activity workbooks, as well as finding a parking space reasonably nearby, and stood in front of the parking meter, searching for any coins which might be accepted by the machine with which to pay for the parking space before she was fined by a passing parking inspector.

The bookshop had two levels, and she found the educational resources, along with the activity book she was looking for on the second floor.

She dropped the book off with the front office at Snow's school, writing a short Sticky Note and inserting it inside the front cover with the message: _I love you. Have a good day at school. Mom._

* * *

Walking into Lyle's room, she frowned to see that he wasn't in bed, and was startled when she was taken around the waist and twirled around and backed against the wall. Obviously, it wasn't a Sweeper, because a Sweeper wouldn't have been kissing her neck, and reached for the light switch and found that it was on the other side of the door.

"Get the light," she told him in a muffled voice, slightly out of breath from the scare, and he let go of her to switch out the light whilst she attended to locking the door, and got the other light switch for him, when he took too long to do so.

He lifted her off her feet, to the sound of her cry, and she wrapped her legs about his waist, and they landed on the bed, kissing.

* * *

The day after, when she went to pick Snow up from school, she found Snow waiting for her with Jarod, and she felt something in her take a sharp dive.

Jarod shouldn't have been here! It was much too dangerous! For him, and for all of them.

But it was something else, too. It was seeing Jarod and knowing that, no matter how much he pretended to be otherwise, Lyle was still their enemy; still her enemy. And that she'd sworn to avenge her brother, Kyle.

She smiled, and hugged Jarod, but inside, she wanted nothing more than to be alone.

How could he understand, he'd never met his Convergence partner? (If that was what they were.)

But, more than that, she started to worry that there was something so, so wrong with her, and that she'd started to lose, and that, if she wasn't careful, she'd bring her whole family down with her.

It was nice to have someone to share physical intimacy with, but it wasn't funny at all when it came at the cost of something much larger, at the cost of family.

Distantly, she thought that she already had a husband.

She had David.

* * *

_Sorry it's so freaking creepy! Thanks for reading, anyway._


	8. Chapter 8

When next she visited him, he'd sat up, so that when she was near enough, he pulled her into his lap, his hands travelling to the spot between her legs where she wasn't wearing any underwear, and she felt her heart quicken with her breaths, and her back move and stretch backward, her own hands joining his as she panted, wanting more.

She fought against the urge to press her hips up to meet his hands when their caress became stronger, more insistent, and dropped her head back onto his shoulder, feeling his heart on her back, thudding as fast as her own, and gave into the deep moans working there way up her throat.

Shit, was she the only one breaking apart here?

She felt him press a kiss to her hair, and a hand came to touch her stomach, and she was falling backward, they were falling backward, slowly, onto the mattress, and she again pressed her hand over his, telling him not to stop what he was doing.

His voice was clear when he spoke, unmuffled by her hair, and quiet. "They know what you've been doing. They've been watching, and listening."

A jolt of fear rode through her at his words, but she didn't know whether to take him seriously or not, until it occurred to her that he'd not spoken, because she'd not felt his lips move, and the fear became real.

"Roll over," he instructed, intertwining the words with her thoughts without having to utter them.

For a moment, she thought she'd frozen, but then she felt herself obey, and she was flipped over, onto her back, between the mattress and him. A sickening horror took hold of her inside. How was he doing this – he wasn't _dead_ – how was he talking to her in her mind? She'd thought he was an Empath, after all of the confusion, and now, what was he? Did he have what his mother had had, and what his twin sister and half brother had, the Inner Sense?

She thought of her puffer. Oh, how badly she needed it now. She could hear, in the steady thrum of her breath, just that edge of a rasp, and it would get worse, could only get worse.

"There's a good girl, carrot," he thought to her in her mind, as though she were somebody's pet dog. "Why don't we give them what they want?"

A strangled cry clawed its way out of her chest, only to be drowned without ever making it to the surface when he kissed her.

"It's rock and roll time, baby!"

Her eyes widened as a blanket of nausea lay itself over her, thick and heavy and hot, and he came into her. She thought that she might be ill all over herself, then, but the sickness only clung tighter to her insides with every new thrust, stronger than the last, until she felt her eyes watering from the pain, moving between her sickness and weaving something thick and indestructible.

His voice came unsteadily to her mind, but clear, so that she knew that he'd not spoken aloud, but directly into her mind. "Scream. Scream for me, carrot."

But she couldn't scream, the pain was too much, so he forced the scream from her with a quick, sharp twist of her wrist.

She tasted blood on her lips, sliding slowly into her mouth, and she knew that it was his, and that was all the solace that she had in that dark, painful room.

* * *

He smiled at David when he walked in, when he had the Sweepers wait for him outside – so he'd not been on a business trip, after all – and he thought of the Tower doctor's automaton questions from earlier in the day – "So, we've come to see how you're doing today. Tell us, does it hurt?" – we being the Tower doctor and a Tower Empath – and his reply, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face because it hurt too much, "Only when I think, but that wouldn't affect you, because you don't." He'd been meaning to add something more after that, but, in the effort, the thoughts had escaped him.

If David thought that he had something he could fling at him that would hurt more than he was already hurting, then he was welcome to it.

* * *

Emily woke in a bed in a hospital room – not _Med Space_ – and, blinking open eyes thick with sleep, she saw that her wrist had been bandaged – not broken, then – and that she was connected to a drip that sat beside the bed as though it were a funny sort of hat rack which one should not have liked to meet in a darkened corridor or passageway.

The room was scattered with Get Well cards from well wishes, flowers from David, she guessed, with a small, inward smile, and a drawing that Snow had done of a tiny, isolated graveyard, perched in a gloomy forest glade, slanted with bright shafts of light were the occasional bug fretted, with every meaning, she imagined, to cheer her up.

She gazed at her right wrist where the bandage covered her sun tattoo for a long time, before deciding to try to sit.

* * *

When Farfalla visited her in the hospital, with David and Snow, she'd learnt a new word – at Snow's instigation, Emily imagined – and launched into a repetitive chant of, "Better. Better. Better…" And on it went, throughout the entire visit, not even stoppered by David's words, or her words back.

He would come back later, she realised, to talk to her properly, because, with the children around, there was no hope for a serious, adult conversation, so she smiled a lot, and thanked Snow for his drawing, to which he merely offered a noncommittal shrug.

It was only when they were to leave, leaving her alone, and she reached for a hug from Snow, that he whispered to her quietly, "What are they doing to it? I thought the point was that they wanted it alive? I'll see you later."

She couldn't tell him how his one little 'you' – spoken without any emphasis over the other words in its sentence – got to her, and the way he'd referred to his father as 'it,' rather than 'him.' Or how he'd told her that he'd see her later, as though it were a promise, but had been disguised so as not to be, as though there was something inexplicable that he felt that might tear her away from him, and cause him to break that promise without his consent.

And she remembered, then, alone in her hospital room, how it could be bad when one's Convergence partner was taken unwell, or died, and how it was said that expression of the anomaly was inherited fully from both parents in the case of children of Convergence, and she knew then, that her son was not just what he seemed to be, not just a 6-year-old boy, but an Empath, also.

She felt so, so, so ill, as though there'd never ever be a cure in all the world for how ill she felt, at that moment, but then she thought of Farfalla, and she was just _perfect_, and she started to cry.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have exposed you to that thing in the first place," were David's words to her, spoken from his position standing beside her bed, but not looking at her.

She felt a powerful urge to slap him, but only replied, "Why didn't you do something earlier?" without even any anger in her voice, just tiredness.

He lifted his face to meet her gaze, then, and she saw fear in his eyes, making them the slightest bit shiny. "I needed to be certain," he answered, his voice shaking.

Emily laughed. "That I wasn't a willing part to it?" she barked, finally in anger.

He reached for her hand, sinking to sit beside her on the bed. "That you still loved me," he replied.

His words stopped her from taking back her hand, and stilled her when he placed a kiss on her lips.

She did not want to think what would have happened had he decided otherwise.

He pulled back from the brief kiss, but she reached up her left hand, on which she wore the ring he'd given to her on their wedding day, to stop him.


	9. Chapter 9

It would begin as something very simple, and non-threatening: a hand on her lower stomach, just above the waistline of whatever she was wearing – skirt or pants – the feel of someone's heart against her back, a pair of lips pressed softly to her neck. After a while, she'd start to sway a little – sometimes, there'd be humming – and then, as if she'd not even noticed she was doing it, she'd slowly move her feet, until, when his hand left her stomach, her hand reached out to grasp it, and she was led into a nice, neat turn, and that was it, they were dancing. It would end, when, minutes, whole stretches of time later, her head rested on his shoulder, or her eyes closed for a smile, in the middle of a twirl, she'd suddenly find herself the only one dancing, and she'd feel stupid.

As hard as she tried, then, she could not manage to feel unsettled or used. At the back of her mind, it would come as a hard slap to her face, but it would only ever remain in the back of her mind, not even to set her heart racing, as though, no matter what she did, she couldn't truly convince herself of the fact.

She thought of it as an antidote, an apology to the dreams that assaulted her each night, or when she should close her eyes, heavy with weariness, and find herself taken unwittingly back into dreams, dragged, kicking, screaming and clawing.

In dreams, everything would change, as though, heavy and exhausted, the curtain of reality had dropped, and the air about her would become dark and static. Then, she could almost taste the danger in the stale air. A knife held to her abdomen, a hand pulling her hair, a knee in the small of her back, fingers in places they shouldn't have been, places she'd not have allowed them, a punch landed to her stomach, her forehead smacked against a wall; the dreams were never kind, and always painful, and unrelenting.

And then, in her waking hours, her visions of him would return to his charming exterior, and there would be nothing for her to do but to believe it, wholly.

She'd put extra effort into her time spent with David – when he was available, home – in retaliation, as though to say, 'You can't have me; you can dream all you like, but you can never have me; not again, not ever again.' She found comfort with David – but never the excitement she'd had with Ray, her first husband – until, once again, her eyes would drift shut in fatigue, and the small amount of comfort she'd taken from David would have to suffice as her amulet against the horror of that darkness.

She cut her finger on a piece of paper, only to find that, the next day, it was gone. As though she'd only dreamed it up, as though, subconsciously, she wished she could cut herself in a less innocent way, in a less unintentional way.

And escape it all.

* * *

_Five weeks later_

She often thought of phoning Jarod – or Ethan – but it had been bad enough for him to come to visit when he had, putting them all in danger, so she remained alone. She hardly knew what she would say to him, in any case, what she would be _willing_ to say.

It was hers; private, and the thought of sharing it with anyone else but her tormentor frightened her. What would they say; what would they do? Would they think her responsible, at least as responsible as he? Was she, somehow, responsible?

What would they think, if they knew?

* * *

David's eyes cast over the scans illuminated on the light boards, nodding mentally. The monitor had taken, noticeably having grown in size since its implantation into the upper left arm on the side of the Empath's non-dominant hand; the colony looked well, from the brain scans, and he anticipated that it would be soon, a matter of days, until they would be able to fully test the connections and the accuracy of the monitor.

By then, the maintenance unit, or MU, would have arrived, and the initial interfacing would be able to be started, providing, when completed, the monitor's entire backlog of collected input and data on the subject's vitals, including of the progress and activity of the biomechanical colony.

He looked forward to the results with anticipation, and to being able to report back to the Tower successfully. If all went successfully – as well with the colony – the life expectancy of those who undertook upgrading with this new batch of colonies would considerably outlast its current average of five years (and eight, at record best). Upgrading of suitable individuals to be able to interface directly with the right technology would then become much more viable, and much less wasteful.

Of course, the long term could only provide the results they were after, and that meant five to eight years, at least. It was an ongoing hope, not an instant fix or overnight cure, but David was willing to invest a little faith, at this point. (And if it didn't work out, there was always the next time. It'd come close, at one point, to destruction, but they'd implanted a second batch of the colony, and it was yet to show signs of acting up.)

Personally, he hoped it hurt.

He nodded to the technician – Rowena – and her assistant once before leaving. Outside the room, he turned to his personal Sweeper. "What was the assistant's name? Ray?"

"Kay," Craig answered.

He nodded and strode away, Craig, as always, following.

* * *

Craig, David knew, had a young son, a handsome 2-year-old by the name of Marion, and a wife, Jo, whom he liked to call Jodie. He'd made a few friends amongst the other Sweepers: Keith, from Retrieval; Buckley, an L5, and Buckley's partner-in-crime, Taxi, a young Latina woman.

He liked knowing that he could rely on someone, and those that he could he rewarded.

* * *

Emily woke in the middle of the night, her dreams full of broken mirrors and bloody shards, and reached out for David. She needed to hold him, that was all.

She knew how busy he'd been; she would not wake him.

Her heart thumping with rabbit's feet speed against her ribcage, she fought back her fear, and closed her eyes. (She hated to sleep now, but if she didn't sleep, then she'd fall asleep anyway, and she'd have no control over when it happened.)

She just wished it would stop, all of it stop.

As David dreamed of the Tower's gratitude, of their trust, Emily fell into dark, uneasy dreams, echoes of a past she could not remember.


	10. Chapter 10

She'd started to read Missy Debussy's _The Remainder of Our Secrets_ on Monday, and, by Wednesday, she'd finished no more than the first chapter. She'd packed the novel in her sports bag, to read after tennis, but, instead, she found herself preoccupied with the invitation she held in her hands.

She wanted to throw it away; it was laughable! How would she attend a dinner or a dance looking the way she did? Wearing an evening dress!

Alone, she left to look herself over in the mirror in the club's bathroom and was, momentarily, surprised to find that the cuts and bruises of her dreams had not followed her into her waking hours.

She felt just like crying.

She sat in her car in the parking lot, reading the novel she'd brought along, but she couldn't get into it. A laborious half an hour later, she put away the novel in time to kick open the car door and fall outside to bring up her lunch.

Tears poured down her face, then.

She'd managed to pick herself up, standing on unsteady, shaking legs, when her trembling thoughts were interrupted by someone's rendition of _Under the Bridges of Paris_ and she was met by a warm, playful smile and gentle arms.

Though it was not cold, he rubbed her arms, and the repetitive motion seemed to soothe her as she imagined shooting him, and all of the blood and gore that could come of such an action.

She forced her eyes shut and waited for him to leave as he always did, praying that she'd not be seen by anyone who knew her – any of the club members or staff – and thought mentally ill, standing motionless in the middle of the parking lot, her car, its door thrown wide – letting in the heat; flies – standing only feet away.

Lyle began to hum _Lilac Wine_, and she refrained, with painful exertion, from stomping on his shoe. Oh, how she wanted him to just _die_!

She wanted to shout at him in hysterics, 'Where do you even pull all of this crap from? I thought Asians did it for you? I'm not Asian, you fuckwit!' She swallowed it all, and stoppered up her tears. When he'd gone, she knew just what she was going to do.

* * *

She waited in Snow's bedroom, lying back on racing car sheets and eating strawberry ice-cream from the tub with a teddy bear spoon, waiting for him to arrive home from school with the Sweeper David had assigned to the task since her hospitalisation.

She hummed _Under the Bridges of Paris_, idly.

Returning home from school, Snow paused in the doorway, uncertain, before he gave himself a mental kick and stumbled into his bedroom. Jeez, this was his mom, not some scary monster!

He dropped his schoolbag and walked up to his bed with a casual stride. "What's up?"

Emily sprung up into a sitting position, training her eyes upon his face.

His eyes widened, before he could stop them, but he caught the backward leap.

"What's up with Allison?" she asked, in a cheerful, stuck-indoors-too-long voice.

He shrugged. "I don't know," he answered, thinking himself lame, but not knowing what else to say.

Emily popped a spoon of ice-cream in her mouth. "Why am I stupid?"

Snow dropped his shoulders. He couldn't believe she'd actually remembered that! He thought she'd forgiven him. "I was upset, mom. I didn't _mean_ it," he whined.

"Then why'd you say it?"

He couldn't decide if she was playing the good-natured puppy dog or the tease, and it made him uneasy. She was his _mom_! "I'm not _him_," he told her, regretting it the moment the words left his mouth. What an idiot!

"You're not who?" she asked, feigning stupidity.

"I'm not Lyle," he uttered painfully, only managing to mouth the last word.

Emily laughed.

He wanted to turn and run out of his room. "Sonny can see. She's better." He turned and raced for the door.

Emily's first thought was of when he'd started to call his little sister Sonny – a small rebellion against David's Allison and Ally, she was sure – and frowned, the meaning of his words finally sinking in.

Farfalla could see!

* * *

She came down from upstairs, Farfalla's sleeping body bundled up in her arms, and found him drinking apple juice at the kitchen table.

"He's voodoo, mom," Snow told her. "You should know better than to mess with that shit."

"Where did you hear that?" she asked.

Snow didn't answer, but sipped his apple juice. "He's the fucking Apocalypse! You're sweet; you're an angel. You're on the wrong fucking sides, mom. Don't you get it? You can't love him."

"I don't," Emily replied.

Snow made a face, and got up to refill his glass with the bottle from the refrigerator. _As if._ He laughed. "Jesus, mom! You _are_ Lin!" He stomped his foot. "You're his wonderful Lin, so wonderful her own fucking brother fell in love with her!"

Emily frowned. "Jarod's not in love with me," she told him, chiding. Not like _that_. She couldn't understand where he'd come onto such a notion.

"Fucking Kyle!" Snow howled, face reddening. Tears turned his blue eyes into ponds that reflected the midday sky in summer. "Oh fuck! Shit!" he ranted, and fled, dropping the full glass of apple juice.

The sound of smashing glass and apple juice splashing against the floor and refrigerator door barely registered in Emily's mind. She was hurt for Snow, for what was happening to him, dragging him from her, from his little sister.

She turned to return Farfalla back to her nursery. She'd need to clean the mess and glass up before someone hurt themselves on it.

As she walked up the stairs, she thought how silly it was that Snow had thought she was Lin. Lin was Asian; she was not. The idea wasn't even plausible.

* * *

"Have you ever heard of anyone called the Apocalypse?" she asked David after dinner, joining him in his study and taking up in front of his bookcase.

"The Apocalypse Child," David replied. "But not _the_ Apocalypse, no."

Emily smiled, shrugging a little. "So who is he, or _she_?" she asked, smiling a bit more.

David shut the journal he'd been reading and placed it down at his desk in front of him, shifting his attention to her. "Back in the sixties the Center got their hands on this _super_ Empath – they'd have us believe he was a Pretender, and many still do, but Pretenders aren't able to take the upgrades, so far as we know."

"You sound sceptical," Emily told him.

He gave a short derisive laugh.

She smiled. "So what are 'the upgrades'?"

"You can think of them as like bionic implants, except they're only possible in science fiction. Ours are real."

"'Ours'?" she teased.

"The Center's," David corrected.

Emily shook her head, fighting back a laugh. "You're being silly!"

"I kid you not, Libby," David told her. "In fact, you know the project I told you about a while ago-" He stalled.

Emily's smile disappeared as a shiver ran through her body, but she nodded.

David couldn't meet her eyes; instead, he looked at the cover of the journal sitting on his desk. "That is why we needed the Empath," he said, subdued.

Emily nodded, her eyes bright. "I think it's just great!" she told him in her most enthusiastic voice. "They're going to help so many people!"

David's face shot up and his gaze snapped to hers. "That's not what they're for, Libby," he explained, softly reprimanding. "You should know that. They're to make money, for us. The Center. You and me. Our _kids_."

Emily stopped smiling. "I get it," she said, after a long silence.

David only bowed his head.

Emily turned and left the study, pulling the door to a jar after her, then, at the sound of David's chair scraping – as though he meant to stand – she pulled it shut to save him the trouble.

* * *

"Does he love me?" she asked, lying down on the bed beside her son.

Snow didn't reply, as though hoping she'd think him sleeping and leave.

"Does Lyle love me?" she pressed.

Snow made a face, annoyed that she'd said _that_ name. You don't speak the name of ruin, it will find you in the shadows and bring you to your death. But maybe he was overreacting a little, playing it up to more than it was, and Lyle _was_ his dad. _Great_, he thought. _Yeah, great. What a comforting thought, 'ey, kiddo!_ "He's crazy about you, but he's also just fucking crazy," he told her, not _daring_ to look over at her face.

Emily's voice was quiet when she spoke, dull. "He hurt me."

"He thinks he's protecting you, from the _evil_ Empath hordes! He thinks they know shit! But they're fairly fucking much in the dark!" He sniggered. They were total idiots, in actual fact!

Emily turned over so that she was facing him.

He clamped his eyes shut.

"I'm confused."

He bit back a sob. Jeez, now he was going to have to say something painful. "I'm not him," he told her, his voice as blunt as he could make it, "I shouldn't have to answer for him."

He felt a warm, rose-scented weight descend on him and realised that she was hugging him. (Rose was David's pick-me-up; in the old days, she'd always smelled of lavender.)

'I'm sorry,' he wanted to mumble, to her and to Breca, but the words wouldn't come out.

* * *

Emily went into her and David's bedroom and lay down on the bed. She didn't know what to think. She thought of Snow telling her that Kyle had been in love with her, and wondered what that had been about. She thought of once being known as Lin. (If it had ever been once, it'd had to have been before she was 17, before the memory loss, and if she wasn't 17, then she was too young for comfort.)

She lay half thinking to herself until David came in. "Where'd you hear this thing about Noah, anyway?" he asked.

"Who?" she giggled. She didn't remember asking anything about anyone called Noah.

"The Apocalypse Child; Missy Parker's honest-to-God twin brother." (David refused to call her Miss, he'd told her, despite the fact that others did. Miss wasn't a fitting first name, so he called her Missy, as he'd never been privy to her _real_ name.)

"Missy?" She sat up in bed, peering at him.

David refrained from an eye roll. "I've never _met_ her, quit throwing me those Envious Eyes."

"Oh?" she teased. "Is this on record, or off record?"

He laughed. "This is seriously," he replied.

She smiled. "So, she has another twin brother," she turned her eyes to the side for a moment, in thought, "who isn't _really_ her twin brother?"

"Yeah," David affirmed. "The man you met- The Empath."

She scrunched her nose up, taking hold of a pillow if she needed to defend herself. "Are you being silly?"

David frowned. "No," he replied.

Emily lied back on the bed. "So what happened to Noah?"

"He died," David answered.

She turned her head to look at him. "How?"

"A group of Catherine Parker's idols, one would think, thought they'd try their hand at 'rescuing' him."

Emily giggled. "Catherine Parker? Is she related to your Missy, by any chance?"

"She's not _my_ Missy," David bristled slightly, "and, yes, she was her mother. She's dead, now, too."

"How did she die?"

"'Rescuing' Center subjects."

Emily pulled a face.

David shook his head.

"I thought we called them _volunteers_ now," Emily said.

David didn't bother to turn his gaze to hers. "Not ours."

"You own them?"

David rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Do you own Mr. Parker?" Emily asked.

"Lyle Parker," David corrected. "Yes, we own him."

Emily smiled. "Are you mad at him?"

David looked at her, finally, and moved over to sit down on the bed. He took her hands between his. "Yes, I'm mad at _him_. But not at you."

"I don't like the sound of your project," she told him. "I don't want him to have any advantages. I wish you'd killed him."

David frowned. "So do I, but he's too important for that."

"Aren't there more of these Empaths?" Emily asked, looking down at her hands in his.

"Yes," he said, "but it's better this way. He's a bad person."

Emily's eyes turned apologetic.

David reached over and pulled her to him. She didn't have to say she was sorry, he understood where she was coming from very well. Sometimes it was hard to think of them as people instead of assets, or appliances


End file.
